Poetry
by Windborn
Summary: Playing mediator between Hawke's more volatile companions is an exhausting job, and Varric is glad to return to The Hanged Man to unwind. Isabela is waiting for him, unexpected company, but not unwelcome, and inspires a new piece of writing. (Friends with benefits, nudity, mild nsfw.)


**Poetry**

Some days, babysitting the entirety of Kirkwall was exhausting. Paying off the right people to hold the black market in check, keeping a thumb on the flow of rumors and the moods of those with wealth and influence, as well as tracking the worst whispers out of Darktown. If Varric could prevent another round of horror like the disaster with Quentin and Leandra, he would count the lost sleep and spent coin a blessing. Hawke would be a long time recovering. In the meantime, the task of keeping the more volatile of Hawke's friends from killing one another . . . well, that also fell to Varric.

He'd rather deal with the Carta than play mediator between Fenris and Anders with Hawke in no humor to listen to them. Those two were like a pair of neglected puppies, snapping at one another.

Oh, they tried. Even Anders, driven as he was, wasn't heartless, just angry. Maybe expecting them to put aside their differences, even for Hawke, was a bit much; instead, they'd been avoiding one another.

Mostly. Today had been one hell of a headache, with the heat compounding everyone's aggravation.

Varric stopped at the bar as he crossed the common room in The Hanged Man on his way to his quarters. "A pitcher of your best, and some of that amazing roast I smell. And something cool to go with it," he said, flipping a coin onto the counter. "Sent up, if you don't mind. Thanks."

The barkeep made to reply, stopped. His brows drew together, confusion etching odd lines in his face. "Well. Certainly, if you like, Master Tethras, but-"

Oh, fantastic. Something else to go wrong. "Is there a problem?"

"Only if you didn't want company, Serah. Isabela went up a while ago, asked for the same thing as you, more or less. But for two. I assumed you'd be expecting her."

Varric almost immediately gave up trying to decide if the prospect of an evening with Isabela was a pleasant change or overwhelming, after the day he'd had, but he assured the barkeep that no, that was no problem, she was always welcome. At least she wasn't likely to yell, even if he chose quiet over company and asked her to take herself elsewhere.

He did get an extra pitcher of ale. In this heat, it couldn't hurt, particularly if sharing with Bela. And he could never quite be sure what she might order-she liked to try _everything_ , and some of The Hanged Man's brews tasted like goat piss.

Up the stairs, down the hall to the right, and he found his door slightly ajar. Lucky he'd stopped down in the tavern, or he'd be going in with his nerves on edge and Bianca cocked and ready to tear his own room apart. Wouldn't have been the first time. Hands rather full, between his crossbow and the pitcher, he toed the door open. Several large, covered platters sat on the table, only one, thankfully, steaming. He wasn't a huge fan of raw greens, but the heat wave had ignited the culinary creativity of half the cooks in the Marches, it seemed, leading to dozens of new, chilled dishes-soups, meats, and fish, as well as things more traditionally served cold-and some of them were even edible. A half-full pitcher of dark ale and a full tankard stood amid the plates.

What he did not see was any company.

"Rivaini? You still here?" He propped Bianca by the door and traded his pitcher for the tankard.

"In the bedroom," her rich voice answered. Not quite a purr. At least, not a deliberate one. More Bela at her most relaxed and comfortable.

And was that paper rustling?

All right, he was game.

Varric poked his nose into the bedroom.

The first thing he noticed-the very first thing, like a parent who walks into his ransacked house and sees only that his children are still there-was his latest manuscript, stacked in two neat piles on the foot of the bed, one page loose in midair between them, held with surprising delicacy in one dark hand.

She "hmmed" at him. "Aveline is going to gut you for this one, Varric. So many titillating details - which I love, by the way. But there's no question who it's meant to be, and she will _gut_ you."

No point telling her it wasn't to be read yet, since she already was. But she handled the pages with gentleness and respect. He'd never told her how he fretted over those young words - he never needed to. "Sure she will. But imagine the look on her face, and tell me it won't be worth it." He tore his attention from the precious pages to catch her reaction.

Or try to. The moment he looked up, he forgot why he did.

The eternal struggle of the writer-to capture in language moments, visions, for which words fall ludicrously, lamentably, _pathetically_ short. The nearest he ever managed for this one?

A poet's wet dream.

Isabela lay atop his comforter, on her stomach, breasts pillowed beneath her. The sunlight through the window slanted across her coffee-and-cinnamon skin, caressed the ankles crossed over her back, and tangled in her midnight hair, teasing out a hint of fire, like warm coals in the dark. She wrapped a curl around one finger, tugged it straight, and released it in a slow, mesmerizing rhythm. The only way she could have set the scene any more perfectly, though he doubted she'd done it on purpose, was by finding an unused quill to nibble on.

She wasn't wearing a stitch, beyond the bright turquoise sash that bound her hair. And her customary jewelry, but no stitches there.

Of course, he'd seen her naked before, but never with her eyes roving over his writing with an intensity that made him want to rethink where he had committed his heart. She had a particular phrase for their relationship that emphasized its uncomplicated physicality, and whatever they shared, he certainly enjoyed it, but _damn_.

"Rivaini," he managed at last, and his voice didn't even crack, "is there a reason you're naked in my bed?"

She laid a page down, picked up the next, never looked up. "Because I didn't want splinters in my ass from those chairs."

Should he bother prying loose the rest of the answer? Did it matter? He took a long drink, studying her over the rim as he considered. No. No, it didn't matter a bit.

His uncharacteristic silence finally drew her attention. "Andraste's holy tits, Varric! How can you stand that jacket? I know you have your business image to maintain, but it's hotter than a pair of rutting nugs, even in here!" Her free hand flicked toward the sitting room, shooing him away. "Get comfortable, have some dinner, and then we'll see about making your evening a little better than your afternoon."

Taking his eyes off her to fetch food was a less than appealing trade, but since she didn't seem inclined to go anywhere, he did as he was told. "You heard about that, did you?"

She snorted. "Right pair of idiots, those two. You did get them away from Hawke before you left?"

"They had enough sense to take themselves elsewhere when it became clear they couldn't behave." Varric peeled off his jacket, then his shirt, sweat-damp and foul, and the dull throbbing in his skull eased at the relative cool. Without really thinking about it, he stripped to his breeches before applying himself to the meal. "In different directions. I assume they haven't met elsewhere to continue the argument. Kirkwall is still standing."

"More 'leaning drunkenly,' but at least they haven't given the final push."

"Mind what you're slandering there, Rivaini." Kirkwall could be a filthy hive of violence, abuse, and immorality, but it was still _his_ hive.

Bela just laughed.

Despite his earlier curiosity about the food, Varric ate with little attention for it. Enough to decide it wasn't half bad. But an idea had taken root in the back of his mind, where it sprouted and flourished as Isabela asked questions and made suggestions about the new serial, to which he responded with as much thoughtfulness as he could manage. His notion leafed and sprawled out of its back corner, blossoming into a single, glorious thought.

Finally, he refilled his tankard and returned to the bedroom. Setting it beside the bed, he lit a lantern to fend off the approaching dusk, took a moment to savor the sharp shadows and honey undertones it painted over her skin. Her perfect, powerful curves, so enticingly, fiercely feminine.

"You're remarkably quiet this evening, sweetheart. What's gotten into you?"

He pondered her a moment longer, the smooth slope of lower back into firm buttocks, where the faint line of a scar seemed to trace a route to follow. There. He would start right there. "Inspiration," he replied, turning to fetch the relevant articles from his desk.

"Oh?" this time the purr was undeniably intentional, and just a little predatory, raising the hairs on the back of his neck-among other things. "What are you feeling inspired toward?"

"Poetry." He returned to the bed, quill in one hand, vial of ink in the other.

Isabela visibly deflated. "Poetry. If you're trying to keep yourself busy while I read - I mean, it's _good_ Varric, but I'm in no hurry."

He tapped the feathered end of the quill against his chin, waiting. She was clever; she'd work it out.

"And I've never much been one for listening, unless . . . " Chocolate eyes narrowed. She licked her lips, set aside the page she'd been reading. "Don't you need paper for that?"

Varric smiled, slow and sly. "Move over."

 _"Oh."_ Her face lit with sudden curiosity, she carefully moved his manuscript to the floor and made room for him to sit beside her.

"Don't roll over. Not yet." He lightly trailed the feather up the back of her thigh, considering again his starting point.

"Yet, hmm?" The question slipped from her lips in a sigh.

Chuckling, he inked the quill. "I think we'll get there." He set the nib to the hollow of her back, her skin prickling to gooseflesh at the first touch, and began to write.


End file.
